to fly to you so I walked every step on this stone.
So many beginnings. I tell myself that in a way it’s good that I haven’t found Ky yet, because I still don’t know what to whisper to him when I see him, which words would be the very best ones to give.
Indie finally speaks. “I’m hungry,” she says. Her voice sounds as hollow as the empty wasp’s nest.
“I’ll give you a blue tablet if you want,” I tell her. I don’t know why I’m so averse to taking them, since this is precisely the type of situation Xander wanted to help me through. Maybe it’s because the boy who ran with us didn’t seem to want them. Or because I hope to have something to give Ky when I see him, since I gave away the compass. Or because Grandfather’s voice echoes in my mind from when he talked about a different tablet, the green one: You are strong enough to go without.
Indie gives me a sharp, puzzled look.
A thought comes to my mind and I pull out my flashlight. I shine it around, noticing again something I saw earlier and stored away in my memory: a plant. My mother didn’t teach me specific names of many plants, but she did tell me the general signs of poison. This plant shows none of those signs, and the very presence of the spikes seem to indicate that it has something within to protect. It’s fleshy and green, edged with purple. It isn’t lush like the vegetation in the Borough but it’s certainly better than the tired tumbles of sticks and leaves that many of the plants here have turned into for the winter. Some of them have small gray cocoons strung along their bare branches, memories of butterflies.
Indie watches for a moment as I gingerly pull off one of the broad, spiked leaves. Then she crouches next to me and does the same, and we both carefully use our rock knives to scrape away the spikes. It takes a little while, but then we each have a small, skinned-looking gray-green piece of plant in front of us.
“Do you think it’s poisonous?” Indie asks me.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I don’t think so. But I’ll go first.”
“No,” Indie says. “We’ll both try a little and see what happens.”
For a minute we do nothing but chew, and while it’s not the same as the food I’ve eaten all my life, Society food, it’s still enough to take the edge off and dampen the hunger. Cut me open, and you might find a girl held together not by bone, but by stringy dry sinews, ones that look like the bark that hangs off the trees here in strips.
When nothing happens after a few moments, we both take another bite. I think of another word that might rhyme and write it down, then scratch it back out. It doesn’t work.
“What are you doing?” Indie asks.
“I’m trying to write a poem.”
“One of the Hundred Poems?”
“No. This one is new. It’s my own words.”
“How did you learn to write?” Indie moves a little closer, looks curiously at the letters in the sand.
“He taught me,” I say. “The boy I’m looking for.”
She falls silent again and I think of another line.
Your hand around mine, showing me shapes.
“Why are you an Aberration?” Indie asks. “Are you first-generation?”
I hesitate, not wanting to lie to Indie, but then I realize that I’m not lying anymore. If the Society has discovered my escape, I’ll certainly earn Aberration status. “I am,” I say. “First generation.”
“So it was you who did something?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I caused my own Reclassification.” That’s true, too, or will be. When my status changes, it won’t be my parents’ fault.
“My mother made a boat,” Indie says, and I hear her swallow another piece of the plant. “She carved it out of an old tree. She worked on it for years. And then she paddled away and the Officials found her within an hour.” She sighs. “They picked her up and saved her. They told us she only wanted to try out the boat and that she was grateful they found her in time.”
I hear a strange
So many beginnings. I tell myself that in a way it’s good that I haven’t found Ky yet, because I still don’t know what to whisper to him when I see him, which words would be the very best ones to give.
Indie finally speaks. “I’m hungry,” she says. Her voice sounds as hollow as the empty wasp’s nest.
“I’ll give you a blue tablet if you want,” I tell her. I don’t know why I’m so averse to taking them, since this is precisely the type of situation Xander wanted to help me through. Maybe it’s because the boy who ran with us didn’t seem to want them. Or because I hope to have something to give Ky when I see him, since I gave away the compass. Or because Grandfather’s voice echoes in my mind from when he talked about a different tablet, the green one: You are strong enough to go without.
Indie gives me a sharp, puzzled look.
A thought comes to my mind and I pull out my flashlight. I shine it around, noticing again something I saw earlier and stored away in my memory: a plant. My mother didn’t teach me specific names of many plants, but she did tell me the general signs of poison. This plant shows none of those signs, and the very presence of the spikes seem to indicate that it has something within to protect. It’s fleshy and green, edged with purple. It isn’t lush like the vegetation in the Borough but it’s certainly better than the tired tumbles of sticks and leaves that many of the plants here have turned into for the winter. Some of them have small gray cocoons strung along their bare branches, memories of butterflies.
Indie watches for a moment as I gingerly pull off one of the broad, spiked leaves. Then she crouches next to me and does the same, and we both carefully use our rock knives to scrape away the spikes. It takes a little while, but then we each have a small, skinned-looking gray-green piece of plant in front of us.
“Do you think it’s poisonous?” Indie asks me.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I don’t think so. But I’ll go first.”
“No,” Indie says. “We’ll both try a little and see what happens.”
For a minute we do nothing but chew, and while it’s not the same as the food I’ve eaten all my life, Society food, it’s still enough to take the edge off and dampen the hunger. Cut me open, and you might find a girl held together not by bone, but by stringy dry sinews, ones that look like the bark that hangs off the trees here in strips.
When nothing happens after a few moments, we both take another bite. I think of another word that might rhyme and write it down, then scratch it back out. It doesn’t work.
“What are you doing?” Indie asks.
“I’m trying to write a poem.”
“One of the Hundred Poems?”
“No. This one is new. It’s my own words.”
“How did you learn to write?” Indie moves a little closer, looks curiously at the letters in the sand.
“He taught me,” I say. “The boy I’m looking for.”
She falls silent again and I think of another line.
Your hand around mine, showing me shapes.
“Why are you an Aberration?” Indie asks. “Are you first-generation?”
I hesitate, not wanting to lie to Indie, but then I realize that I’m not lying anymore. If the Society has discovered my escape, I’ll certainly earn Aberration status. “I am,” I say. “First generation.”
“So it was you who did something?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I caused my own Reclassification.” That’s true, too, or will be. When my status changes, it won’t be my parents’ fault.
“My mother made a boat,” Indie says, and I hear her swallow another piece of the plant. “She carved it out of an old tree. She worked on it for years. And then she paddled away and the Officials found her within an hour.” She sighs. “They picked her up and saved her. They told us she only wanted to try out the boat and that she was grateful they found her in time.”
I hear a strange
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